


No Longer Drowning

by pherryt



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of brainwashing, Angst, Art Retreat, Canon Divergent, Cuddling, Fluff, Fraction!Clint, Gardener!Bucky, Goats, Hiding, Hiding in Plain Sight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Painting, Post Avengers, Recovery, Sculptures, Secrets, aftermath of avengers, art as therapy, artist!clint, bucky goes by jimmy, deaf!Clint, depressed!Clint, disguises, goat whisperer, goat whisperer!bucky, low self worth, lucky - Freeform, natasha's a good bro, post winter soldier, thunderstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: Clint's been in a holding pattern since New York. He's hiding out in Bed-Stuy, only coming out to play when the Avengers need him. For two years he's been doing that, while his personal life's been falling apart behind him.Then DC happens and Natasha bundles him and Lucky off to some Art Retreat in the middle of nowhere to keep him safe, maybe work out some things in the process.He doesnotexpect Jimmy and his goats.And why does Jimmy seem a little familiar?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Winterhawk
Comments: 72
Kudos: 247
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heuradys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heuradys/gifts).



> This is the first fic of two for the Marvel Trumps Hate auctions (my very first time trying something like this). This is for the very lovely Heuradys who won a guaranteed 5-15 k fic with an art title banner! Thanks for being so patient! 
> 
> Heuradys came me to me with this art retreat idea and a link to a place they'd been to before that we based it on that looked really cool! I was super stoked to work on this idea too! Now, since i've never been to one of these types of places myself, i did some investigation and then took some liberties for the story, so you could say ' inspired by '. Anyway, they had a bunch of different ideas how the setting could work and all, and then i went through the ideas, worked out a basic outline, Heuradys approved and away we went!
> 
> The art banner was tricky. i wanted it based on something Clint makes in the story, but it's SOOOOOO not my sytle *cries*. i think of the blue as a little too vibrant but, that vibrant blue is kinda close to the color of his eyes when Loki had brainwashed him so, that was important. i had two versions - a gray blue and the vibrant blue and then i put them together and did a soft fade between the colors in a random swipe of area. This was to represent that the affects of loki's control was finally starting to fade (an idea that he comes up with later in the story but doesn't actually verbalize so...represented here!)
> 
> thank you also goes to Hopelessly_me for taking a look at this fic for me for readability, and letting me bang my head against the wall for the art :D

New York had been a blow. A hit that Clint Barton didn't know how to take, and if there was one thing a Barton knew, it was how to take a hit.

But not this time. This time, this time it was just... It was too much.

No one blamed Clint. At least, those who actually knew what happened, because of course it was swept under the rug, even from the rest of SHIELD,  _ not _ just the world. And that was… was great. Clint didn’t know how he could have walked the halls of SHIELD under the horrified looks of his fellow agents, knowing what he’d done.

As for the rest of the world, well, it wouldn't do for people to know that one of the newly fledged Avengers who'd saved the world - or at least New York - was actually  _ responsible _ for the invasion in the first place.

No one blamed him, at least not to his face, but Clint blamed himself. None of it would have been possible, if it hadn’t been for him.

So, after New York, he’d gone to Bed-Stuy to get his head on straight.

Clint wasn’t wallowing.

He  _ wasn’t. _

He just needed space.

So what if it was two  _ years _ ’ worth of space? Clint just wasn’t ready yet. And if anybody should understand that, it should be Natasha.

It wasn’t like he’d been completely off the grid anyway. Both the Avengers and SHIELD had known right where he was the whole time, and he’d still gone on a few missions – both official and, well,  _ not _ .

The Russian Mafia fucking sucked.

Still, the last thing he’d expected was for Natasha to turn up on his doorstep, toss a duffle bag at him and announce that they were going on a road trip. Or that SHIELD had fallen and all his and hers and everybody else’s dirty laundry had just been exposed to the world.

He’d not even noticed. The tv hadn’t been turned on for, what, two weeks? Maybe. It wasn’t like he needed cable when he could watch every episode of Dog Cops on Netflix. (What? Lucky liked it.) And even though his neighbors must know, must have seen the news that Clint had completely missed, none of them had acted any different towards him, like nothing that was out there had changed their opinion of him.

Still, it was a hell of a data dump. Maybe they’d just not gotten to it yet. Maybe their disappointment or fear was still to come.

Maybe Nat was right and he needed a  _ real  _ vacation.

Or a bolthole.

Hey, two birds, one stone, right?

Clint was in the car, purple shades on, a take out mug of coffee in his hand and Lucky in the back, before he thought to ask her  _ where  _ they were going. It wasn’t like he didn’t  _ want  _ to know, more that he trusted Natasha more than anybody he had ever trusted. They’d been through some of the worst shit together and they’d stuck together through it all. She was one of the few who had never, truly, left him behind.

A brochure fell into his lap even as the car eased away from the curb. Somehow, despite city congestion, she always managed to move swiftly and smoothly through the traffic.

“It's a retreat, an artist’s retreat.”

“The fuck?” Clint spluttered, picking up the brochure. “How the fuck is that a vacation? I thought you meant something like a beach, with clear water and white sand, and maybe some of those little umbrella drinks. Why would I go  _ here? _ ”

Nat rolled her eyes at him. “I promise, it’ll be good for you. Look, you choose the level of interaction you’re comfortable with in regards to the rest of the community there, and you're good with your hands. Think of it as art therapy, since you won't work with a therapist –“

“You know why I can't,” he protested. She didn’t deny it. They both had trust issues a mile long, with a smidgeon of paranoia tossed in. Life had taught them both cruelly and it was a lesson they’d learned. They both held government secrets and had missions they couldn’t talk about and now, now that anybody they’d interacted with in SHIELD could have potentially been HYDRA all along, that paranoia was paying off.

“You can create things, feel good about yourself again, all without worrying someone's going to get hurt,” she said softly.

“I don't know  _ anything  _ about art,” Clint protested again, albeit a little weakly. And he meant it. Sure, he dabbled with stuff on occasion - some pencils, a little paint, (and don’t tell anybody, but he had a beat up box of 96 Crayola crayons held together with ducktape under his bed) - but it wasn’t like he knew the differences between baroque, Avant Garde, constructivism or any of that shit.

She gave him a look, like she knew somehow that he secretly dabbled. It was Natasha. He had no doubt that she did.

“Like I said, there are different levels of engagement. This place gives you your own space, a little cabin with an attached studio to work in. There’s a community hall if you need face to face interaction – it doubles as both a dining area and a game area. There’s only one tv – that’s also in the communal area – but it’s limited access. And if you don’t want to deal with people, your cabin has a tiny kitchen. There are a variety of classes for people to practice old skills or expand into new ones, or for use as inspiration. Now, it  _ is  _ a 6 month sabbatical, with an option to renew. So you'll be staying there a while, out of the public view.”

“What's the catch?” He eyed her suspiciously. In the rear view, he could just about catch a glimpse of Lucky sticking his head out the window happily, ears flapping in the breeze.

“By the end of your time there, you need to have come up with at least one thing that they can install on the grounds, for all the touristy folk that come by.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’s a good place for me to be if there’s going to be tourists,” Clint pointed out, slumping down in his seat.

“Where the artists stay is off limits to the public. Don’t you trust me, Clint?”

“You know I do,” he huffed. He watched as she expertly eased them out of the city. Eventually, with a dry mouth, he asked, “Will you be there?”

She shook her head. “No, but I won't be far,” she said softly, “There's something similar fairly close to you, with a different focus. It's not just you who needs this... Change of perspective.”

“And the fact that we’re  _ both  _ off all the bad guys radar is just a bonus?” he asked wryly, snorting just a little.

She smirked at him. “Of course. And not just them. This will give the regular folks a chance to forget. You know how fickle most people are. No one will think of looking for either of us in these places, bad guy or otherwise. We'll be safe till everything blows over.”

He had to admit, she wasn’t wrong. It was, all in all, a good plan. There was no way his neighbors would ever be able to look him in the eyes again with all the shit he’d done fresh in their minds and with him there as a daily reminder so they never had the chance to forget it or move on. Still, an art retreat? “Okay, hiding in plain sight, I get that. But how is this gonna help with anything else?”

“You need a change, Clint. You’ve been hiding in that damn apartment for two years. Two years of trouble where you’ve barely interacted with your friends or teammates, and refused to ask for help with because you didn’t want to be a bother. And look what happened.”

He flinched, forcing his hands to stay still in his lap and not reach for his ears.

“You can’t keep going on like this,” she continued, her voice far too gentle.

“Try me,” Clint said petulantly. But Nat, as usual, wasn’t impressed.

Instead, she smiled. “Besides, like I said, you’re not the only one who needs to stop and reevaluate their lives. I promise, I won’t be far. I put a burner in your bag. So if something comes up, or if you need  _ anything _ , if something happens, call me.”

“Only If you promise to do the same,” Clint said, giving in to the inevitable. Natasha was always like this, a force to be reckoned with, but one that was at least on his side.

“Of course, yastreb. I’ve already programmed in my number.”

Clint took a longer, more thorough look at the brochure. “You’ve been planning this a while,” he said slowly. “This thing says I need to apply for a fellowship, there’s deadlines and shit…”

“Mmmmhmm….” She gave nothing away, but Clint’s mind whirled. The excuse to get out of the public eye – that was  _ recent _ , too recent to have been able to put  _ this _ together so fast. Unless – well, Tony or Pepper could have had a hand in that, he supposed. Also, Nat was really persuasive when she wanted to be.

Or maybe that was just him.

He sighed, letting the brochure drop as he twisted around to give Lucky a checking over. The dog was still quite happily poking his head out the window while the breeze ruffled his fur.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, turning back around, closing his eyes and shifting his seat back, propping his feet up on the dash.

* * *

It was an 18 hour trip and Natasha relentlessly drove them almost straight through, stopping more for Lucky’s benefit than either of theirs, though she at least deigned to let him drive a bit, after Clint got a nap and they’d stopped for lunch.

It wasn’t like the way was unfamiliar. A good three quarters of it was the same way he’d have gone to get to the old homestead, only turning off earlier than usual, after rounding the tip of Lake Michigan and going northwest for the last six and a half hours of the trip.

Their time on the road was soft, mostly quiet, with the radio playing a playlist they’d worked on together for  _ years _ and eventually came to an agreement on, occasionally interspersed with conversation. But they’d known each other long enough that they didn’t need to fill the quiet moments, and that they were most comfortable in each other’s presences then they were in anyone else’s.

That might have had something to do with them being spies, or their shitty upbringing, but Clint was not going to dwell on that, not with Lucky sticking his nose between the seats and panting adoringly up at him as Clint scratched behind his ears.

Quietly, she told him more about the events in DC and  _ why  _ she’d gone so far as she had, the spillage of secrets – of  _ all  _ the secrets – hadn’t been strictly necessary to pull down SHIELD, but it had guaranteed it.

Clint felt a pang in his gut. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That I wasn’t there. And because I thought we were working for the good guys. I promised you we would be,” he said, filled with guilt over having tricked her, however inadvertently, and for all the things he’d done under SHIELDS watch that he’d never questioned.

Natasha covered his hand. “You couldn’t have known,” she said. “And I’m not mad. The best years of my life have been because of you. Don’t take that away from me.”

Clint laughed softly, but let it drop.

She dropped him off at the retreat, handed him a slip of paper and kissed his cheek before getting back in the blue Buick – it was old and Clint wondered where the hell she’d found it, but  _ damn _ was it comfortable – and drove off.

Leaving Clint and Lucky before an old, brick building with numerous chimneys, most of which seemed to be lit. He shrugged the duffle up higher onto his shoulder, braced himself and strode forward.

He was a goddamnned Avenger, he could handle this.


	2. Chapter 2

He couldn’t handle this.

Well, that wasn’t  _ strictly _ true, of course. Clint had been trained even before becoming an agent with SHIELD on how to bluff his way through shit, so he did what he usually did. He faked it, and now here he was, having just been shown to his cabin after a lengthy explanation of the grounds, what was available and what was expected of him, as well as a lecture on safety (he’d barely held in the snort during that part) and a notice of when meal times would be happening.

Oh, and he was supposed to hand over his phone so he wouldn’t get distracted while on the retreat. And TV time was restricted to the weekends, during the evening only.

_ Was this supposed to be a retreat or a jail? _ Clint managed to hold back the grumbling and  _ definitely  _ didn’t hand over his phone.

He wasn’t stupid or suicidal. Plus, technically, he supposed he was on call, in case anything super big happened. He was, despite everything, still on the Avenger roster, even if he hadn’t much felt like Avenger material since, well, since they recruited him.

At least the manager or whatever this guy was didn’t give him any problems over Lucky, so Nat must have cleared that ahead of time too.

Dropping his duffle, Clint explored the cabin, finding that despite their being a common dining area that they’d passed on their way over here, he still had a small kitchen available to him, just like Nat had promised. It didn’t hold much, a super tiny fridge, a stovetop but no oven. A microwave. The cabinet was stocked with dog food, at least, so he didn’t have to worry on that score. The fridge held bottled waters and a few things he suspected Nat was responsible for, bless her heart.

He poured Lucky a bowl of dog food and another of water and set them to the side, Lucky immediately diving in, tail wagging insanely and whacking Clint in the shins.

Clint laughed. “Okay, okay,” he said, backing out of range of Lucky’s tail. “I get the picture.”

While Lucky busied himself with eating, Clint went back to checking out the cabin. It wasn’t overly large – most of the space turned out to be dedicated to a studio which, that made sense. It was basically two rooms and a bathroom. The main room held the tiny kitchenette on one side, a small table tucked under a window with two chairs while the other side was clearly the bedroom – with a bed, dresser and nightstand against the wall. There was a small fireplace, one of those woodstoves that had been all the rage back in the 90’s for trendy, middle class homes and there was, Clint suddenly noted, a curtain of fabric bunched up on one side. When he drew on it, he quickly realized it could be pulled completely across the width of the room to give the bedroom a sense of privacy. Then between the kitchenette and the bedroom were two  _ actual  _ doors, a little off center – one for the bathroom, the other to the studio.

He walked into the studio, flicking on the light.

Several overhead lamps flickered on, illuminating the space. There was a wall of shelves on one side, filled with basic supplies – anything special he needed he would have to order through them – a scarred wooden worktable kitty corner to it against the far wall. There were a few stools and easels spread about, some drop clothes too, but looking at the state of the floor, Clint suspected either they hadn’t worked, or the previous folks just hadn’t bothered.

Or maybe they’d forgotten. At least there wasn’t a deposit on the place. At least, he didn’t  _ think  _ so.

He clicked the light off and wandered over to his duffle, emptying it into the dresser. He froze when he got to the bottom, to the industrial strength case holding his bow and his travel quiver, with just a handful of trick arrows.

After all, he didn’t need more. Shouldn’t need  _ any _ , and if he did, he could probably  _ make  _ some, considering where he was.

But he hadn’t put it there, hadn’t wanted to bring it. Didn’t  _ need  _ it.

Clint shoved it all – still in the duffel – right under his bed.

Carefully though, because it was  _ still  _ his bow.

* * *

Exploring the cabin didn’t take all that long, and soon enough, Clint had gone outside and wandered the grounds with Lucky instead until dinner.

It was nice.

It’d been a while since he’d left the city and having grass underfoot again felt good, even through his beat up sneakers. In fact, he was seriously considering just shucking his shoes and leaving them behind when he tripped over a man weeding a garden with a baby goat on his back.

Clint blinked, backed off, and blinked again.

“Hey, bro, you know there’s a baby goat using you as a bed, right?”

The man didn’t turn. His hair, shoulder length, hiding his face. “I’m aware.”

“Oh, well. Okay then,” Clint said, unsure where to go from there.

A bark drew his attention and he looked up to see that Lucky had been bounding around a small herd of goats – wait, how many did you need for a herd? – just a little further off.

“Fuck,” Clint swore, striding towards his dog. “Lucky! Leave the poor goats alone.”

“Leave him,” the man grunted. “Maybe it’ll distract them long enough I can get my work done.”

“I’m sorry, he’s a city dog. I don’t think he’s ever seen goats,” Clint called over his shoulder. Lucky was ignoring him and Clint had to resort to chasing him down and grabbing Lucky by the collar. “C’mon, boy. You can play with the goats another time. I need to get food…”

Clint looked about and realized he had no idea which way to go to  _ get  _ said food. Behind him, he heard a much put upon sigh from the grumpy gardener.

“Straight ahead, through the goats and over the little bridge. Can’t miss it.”

Turning, Clint beamed back at the guy who was still not looking at him. “Thanks, bro.”

“Not your bro,” the man muttered, his voice low enough that the sound was choppy to Clint’s aides. Shrugging, Clint kept a tight rein on Lucky as they went through the goats and over to the artistic little bridge over the teeniest tiniest brook Clint had ever seen. He could easily have stepped over the thing, it was that small, but he could appreciate the aesthetic.

He used the bridge. Because doing otherwise with a dog that was bound to frolic in the water and churn up mud was just asking for trouble.

The gardener with the goat sitting on his back had been right. The building was impossible to miss and, now that Clint thought about it, looked vaguely familiar. It must have been on the initial tour. A few other folks approached as he did, and he followed them inside.

It was a large, airy room with a lot of plain wood furniture, but well made. There was a wall at the back that was split open – the top half empty and the bottom half turned into a counter, like you might see at some types of diners. If there was a name for that, Clint wouldn’t know it. But food was being laid out there, so he let go of Lucky and made his way over, glancing around as he did and trying  _ not  _ to feel like an imposter.

There was a tv screen in one corner, off, and a standing piano in another. Art decorated the room – murals and figures, abstracts and not – in an eclectic manner that Clint found he liked. The room wasn’t crowded and the selection of characters was just as eclectic. Clint liked that too.

He wound up behind a girl in blue jean overalls, a maroon and blue striped long sleeved shirt with short hair, strong chin and lots of paint covering her fingers, clothes and – yes, even her cheek, he noticed as she turned to face him.

“Hey, I’m Lisa,” she said, holding out her hand. It was covered in ink and paint and Clint supposed he should just get used to that.

“Clint,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it.

“What will you be working on?”

“Actually, I don’t really know. I’ve… been in a bit of a slump lately—" Not technically a lie. “And my friend thought this might help,” Clint answered cautiously, letting go of her hand.

“Oh, been there,” Lisa said. “I just light things on fire when that happens. In fact,” she started snickering. “I remember back in college, I went on a creative spree for like, 3 days. Didn’t leave my room  _ at all _ .  _ Massive _ amounts of paint, just  _ walls  _ of it – like, literally. I might have painted my entire window sill black. It seemed like a good idea at the time, y’know?”

Clint nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. He  _ didn’t _ know, but then again, making decisions that seemed like a good idea at the time –  _ that _ was something he was more than familiar with, so maybe he did.

“So imagine all that paint – on my projects and not! – and then I started messing around with rubber cement and spray fixatives and all sorts of _very_ flammable things – ask me about Bebo the mutant sock sloth sometime – and of _course,_ I like my privacy so my door is shut the whole time, and the windows were closed too, cause _winter,_ y’know? And you know how it is, eh? Eh?” Lisa – Clint must have been more than a foot taller than her – nudged at him, winking. “Mighta got a little high off all those fumes, and then I went to light up and my roommate freaked – not that she was my roommate anymore, she lived just a few doors down, though - thought I was about to blow up the dorm.”

Clint couldn’t stop the laugh that punched out of him. “I take it from the fact that you’re standing here now that that didn’t happen.”

“Nope, but that might only be because she dragged me out of there and made me air out the room first,” Lisa said with an unconcerned shrug.

Still chuckling, Clint said, “Well that’s good, I guess. But I don’t think that’ll solve my problems. I mean, I’m all for creative arson when the occasion calls for it, but I’m thinking they might frown on that here.”

She flapped her hand in dismissal. “Probably, but like that’s ever stopped me before. Oh! Someone brought a dog!”

Lisa promptly abandoned her place in line to go say hi to Lucky and Clint shook his head. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Lisa certainly wasn’t anything like the pretentious type of artist he’d imagined coming here. Of course, he wasn’t that kind of artist either – hell, he wasn’t  _ any _ kind of artist, really - but him being here was due to Natasha, so he’d just figured he wouldn’t fit in.

Maybe he’d been wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took from my own college experiences to round out some of the background characters, i'll admit. cause i did go to an art college, and there were some truly insane stories i could tell... but as some of them weren't mine, i think i should refrain from doing so. so ....


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter was the one that made me worry most about the readability of this fic, since it's a bunch of small sections that help paint the life of everything at the retreat. i could maybe have expanded them, but then i don't think this fic would have been coming out anytime soon!

“You  _ fucker _ ! Get out of my goddamned garden!”

Clint paused on his trek to breakfast a couple of days later and watched the long haired and very grumpy gardener from the first day as he chased goats around a garden, wholly picking up one or two and dropping them on the other side of the short wooden fence. The goat thus displaced proceeded to jump right back inside, much to the other man’s dismay.

“Stop eating the vegetables! You act like you’re never fed!” the man was grumbling loudly, pulling a bleating and protesting goat out of the garden, while three more jumped back inside, lowering their heads to nibble on leafy greens of some sort.

Clint couldn’t hold back the chuckle as he watched.

The man paused, turning to glare at Clint. There was a flash of something over his face, eyes widening in wary and surprised revelation – recognition, most likely, Clint realized with a sinking sensation. His chuckle died off and he cleared his throat. If this guy had  _ recognized  _ him, that couldn’t be good for Clint.

“Sorry, uh, that just looks about as futile as trying to build a sandcastle when the tides coming in,” Clint said sheepishly, shuffling back a bit.

Or was that goatily? He hadn’t seen any sheep here yet. A few chickens though, in addition to the goats, and some ducks by a pond the brook had eventually widened out and then emptied into.

“That’s an apt summation,” the man sighed, his shoulders slumping, releasing tension and Clint relaxed when the man didn’t make mention of who he was at all. That was good. Clint could pretend he didn’t know. He was used to people not knowing anyway, but with the info dump from SHIELD, he knew he couldn’t count on that for long, or that the public sentiment towards him would remain good.

A goat, obviously younger than the others, bleated for the gardener’s attention before headbutting him. The gardener looked down and sighed. “Beat it, you little punk. I’m not your mama,” he snapped, shooing the goat off with his foot. For all that his tone was harsh, his nudges were gentle, and Clint couldn’t help but smile.

Mr. Grumpy had a soft side.

It was really sort of sweet and Clint would have loved to keep watching him interact with the goats, but his stomach rumbled just then and then Lucky bounded through, scattering the goats, half of them fleeing from the exuberant dog by jumping right back into the garden.

The gardener growled, glaring at Clint and Lucky, and Clint decided it was time to take his leave, whistling for Lucky and getting them back on their way.

* * *

In less than a week, Clint had – somehow, beyond all expectations - settled in.

Lucky was in heaven, for certain, and Clint wasn’t feeling quite so out of place here. The imposter feeling didn’t go away, especially every time he peeked into his work room or was asked by the others what he was planning, but character wise, he was liking most of the people he’d met.

There was Jason, who loved long skirts and serenading them all during mealtimes with the piano Clint had noticed on his first day. Somebody had tried to say something snarky about the skirts and had been shut down before Clint could even finish standing up.

That person not only hadn’t returned to the dining area but had disappeared from the grounds entirely. Good riddance, Clint had thought, relaxing a little more into the atmosphere that was obviously being cultivated around him.

Another guy, bigger than  _ Thor  _ for god’s sake (but not Hulk, thank  _ fuck _ ), who kept asking the other residents to challenge him - “I’ll eat  _ anything”  _ – proceeding to do just that when someone dropped an old-fashioned canister of exposed film into his glass of soda. He then declared that the soda tasted horrible, but had actually cured his stomachache.

Then Clint caught a handful of them having tricycle races along the grounds – made more interesting by the fact that the grass wasn’t very conducive to the racing and the goats were running alongside and occasionally impeding the way by darting in front. It was a sight, though, to see a full grown man, tall and thin, trying to get the child sized trike to go  _ anywhere _ without bashing his knees into his own chin.

And Clint absolutely didn’t get challenged by Jimmy – that was the grumpy gardener, turned out, who wasn’t even involved in the antics of the artists but had paused to make sure they  _ didn’t  _ go near his gardens and then wound up staying (Clint couldn’t blame him. It was hi-fucking-larious to watch, real entertainment value) - to partake in the race, and he absolutely  _ didn’t _ call upon his circus knowledge to show that you  _ could _ ride a kids tricycle without hurting yourself – or falling over - even if you  _ were  _ over six feet tall.

Clint  _ definitely  _ didn’t finish the ‘course’ in record time without mishap, stand, bow and trip over his shoelaces. Not at all. Those were just rumors.

Jimmy had sighed, looking at him in disbelief, while the others had laughed good-naturedly, helping Clint to stand up, the trike being appropriated for the next contestant to give it a shot.

Besides the other art residents and the… art… overseer? Clint didn’t really know, but besides them, there were a handful of others that lived on the grounds. There was the couple who worked the kitchen, a woman who did maintenance work, a janitor for the communal buildings, a couple of teachers/advisors who also were there on their own little sabbaticals and pulling double duty and a handful more of folks who tended the grounds – the self sufficient gardens and handful of animals under the care of an older man named Ben, while the typical upkeep stuff fell under the purview of someone else Clint hadn’t yet met.

The grumpy gardener, Jimmy, turned out to be a new hire who was working under Ben and alongside a woman named Mary. Mary was, supposedly, in charge of the animals, but that didn’t stop Jimmy from apparently becoming the  _ goat  _ whisperer.

Jimmy didn’t find that funny. Clint thought it was a riot.

Then again Clint had the sight of Jimmy marching across the grounds, trailed by over a half a dozen goats – mostly kids – in his wake seared into his bleary, sleep addled mind when Clint had stumbled towards his breakfast one morning and had to come to a stop to watch the bleating procession.

Clint had quickly come to the conclusion that he needed more coffee.

And that Jimmy was the goat whisperer.

* * *

Clint nabbed the contraband phone from his bedside table and turned it on. There was a text from Nat, the latest in a string between them as they checked in with each other each day.

Clint: So, there's a guy here, think he's a vet.

Clint: Or one of us.

Clint: Either way, he's outta the game

Clint: Not sure if it was mutual on all parts though. He's jumpy, sometimes, like he's expecting someone to come after him

Nat: Is everything all right? I can be there in 20.

Clint: Nah, he's fine. Plus, he's doing the same thing I am, right? No one would ever think to look for him here

Nat: If you’re sure.

Nat: Tell me about him

Clint: Well he's gorgeous and grumpy and I swear he's the goddamn goat whisperer.

Clint: They follow him around like he's a mama duck and I keep expecting him to quack

Nat: You’ve got a crush.

Clint: No, I don’t.

Nat: Sure you don’t.

Nat: I believe you.

She totally didn’t believe him. That was okay, he didn’t believe him either. He’d just have to make sure that the crush didn’t go any further than that. He had, what, like 6 months to go? He could totally pull this off.

* * *

Days bled into weeks and the weeks bled together and Clint was still no closer to working out what he should do for his project.

He’d gotten to know just about everybody at the retreat. He’d helped Lisa fix the kiln, and Mary to collect eggs. He’d climbed after the kitten of a barn cat that had gotten stuck up in a tree. He’d volunteered in the kitchen. He’d pretended to be a model a handful of times – sometimes with, and sometimes without his clothes. Hey, he had no shame, and he also had it on good authority that he was damn good looking.

Even Lucky had settled in, quickly working out a routine for himself that Clint sometimes observed. Nobody seemed to mind the big dog wandering about and begging for pets or food.

All in all, it was more relaxing than Clint had been expecting, despite the bad dreams that still woke him nearly every night and the looming uncertainty of his project.

Some nights were worse than the rest, and Clint would find himself perched on the rail of a fence by Jimmy as he worked, either fiddling with acorn tops and blades of grass while he watched Jimmy working mindlessly or he stared off into space blankly.

Jimmy didn’t seem to mind the company, though he’d been a bit standoffish at first. He’d quickly warmed up to Clint, Clint finding that a lot of his grumpiness was faked to cover up other things. Like trauma.

Clint knew well what that looked like, how that felt. How it hit you and messed up your entire day.

So he kept Jimmy company and Jimmy kept him company. Jimmy might not even be aware of what was going on, that the reverse was true, but he didn’t chase Clint away, so Clint figured that was what counted.

Right?

There was something in Jimmy’s eyes that called to Clint, an understanding that went deeper than Clint wanted to dig. But he felt comfortable around Jimmy, eventually joining in with Jimmy’s chores, or cuddling the goats, laughing and talking. Clint did most of that, the talking, just happy with himself if he managed to draw a slight smile from the grumpy gardener’s face.

Jimmy didn’t talk about his past, but Clint could see the mental scars on him, could see the gardener’s past in the way he moved. And also in the ways he  _ didn’t  _ move, the way he froze so unnaturally still at times, eyes going wide and absolutely blank.

Clint just stayed close during those times, offering silent support. He knew better than to reach out and touch someone who’d obviously seen combat when they weren’t  _ truly  _ aware of their surroundings.

That way lay pain and suffering for all involved.

* * *

That damn project was still bugging him, absolutely taunting him. Clint had stared at the blank canvas in his studio again for almost three hours today. He hadn’t even been able to pick a color before he’d finally put down his paintbrush.

It had been Lisa’s idea to sketch designs out first before trying to jump straight into a sculpture installment. And Clint had  _ thought  _ he had something but then when he’d tried to transfer it onto the canvas to get a better idea of what he was working with, he’d blanked.

So he’d left the cabin, Lucky at his side, to find Jimmy. Avoidance was Clint’s middle name, after all, according to people like Kate or his brother. It was Francis, really, but Clint avoided that too so, they were probably right.

He found Jimmy in one of the far gardens, surrounded – as usual – by the goats. Punk – “It’s not his name, he’s just a fucking punk,” Jimmy had groused – was curled up next to Jimmy, sleeping, and Jimmy was occasionally pausing to stroke a hand down over the little kid’s back.

Clint levered himself down beside Jimmy and held out his hand. Without a word, Jimmy passed over a spare trowel and Clint tried not to think about the fact that Jimmy carried spare tools around on him these days.

After a few moments of blissful silence, broken only by the sounds of digging and bleating goats and Lucky’s barking, Jimmy spoke.

“Why the hell are you down here in the dirt helping me?” Jimmy asked Clint. “Shouldn’t you be – “ he waved a trowel around vaguely – “Doing art things?”

Clint snorted and leaned in, knocking their shoulders together and lowering his voice. “Wanna know a secret?”

Jimmy stared at him warily. Clint made a show of looking around to make sure no one else would hear him. He knew he looked ridiculous, but he didn’t care. Despite seeming to fit in with the others around him, he still felt like a fraud, like he’d stolen this spot from somebody more deserving of it.

Lifting an eyebrow at Clint, Jimmy motioned him to get on with it.

“I’m not, really. I’m more a handy man and a dabbler. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing here,” Clint said.

“Then why are you here?”

“That,” Clint said, pointing at Bucky. “Is the million dollar question.” He sighed. “Honestly, my best friend put me up to it. Said I had to get out of the fucking apartment and stop moping. I wasn’t moping. I was… laying low, taking a breather. Staying outta the way, I guess?”

Clint shook his head. “She didn’t agree and now here I am. I have no idea what I’m going to make. I think if I don’t produce some sort of idea soon, they’re gonna kick me off the island.”

Jimmy tossed him a perplexed look. “This isn’t an island,” he said slowly.

Barking out a laugh, Clint almost fell over. “Jeez, you don’t watch much tv, do you?”

“Haven’t had much occasion,” Jimmy said softly, one of those haunted expression flitting across his face. But the subject dropped – both Clint’s admission and Jimmy’s – when Lucky barreled into Clint, knocking him into Jimmy.

A startled goat bleat as Punk woke up from the jostling sent Clint into gales of laughter and even Jimmy smiled.

It was a good sight.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint trudged through the pouring rain back from the common area. He was drenched in seconds. Fuck, he should have just made do with the subpar emergency snacks he had back in his cabin, but he hadn’t thought the storm was going to get that bad, and he’d been lured out by the idea of meatball subs.

He paused when movement caught his eye. There was Jimmy, looking around frantically. His mouth was open as he called something but Clint had turned his aides off. There was no way he’d hear anything else beside the pounding of water on the ground, on the roofs, the wind blowing the trees about harshly.

Blinking, Clint watched Jimmy for a moment too long, debating on continuing towards his cabin to get dry and finding out what was going on before he shook his head and finally jogged over to join Jimmy. If something was up, if Jimmy needed help – was he having a moment? Oh god, had the storm triggered him in some way? Maybe Clint could convince him to come back to his cabin with him.

Clint reached Jimmy’s side, waving his hands to get Jimmy’s attention. Then started signing. That had been a great revelation. Some days, Clint just didn’t feel much like talking. Or, well, listening, and he didn’t open his mouth or even put his aides in. The others around the retreat had learned to just leave him alone when he was in a mood, but Jimmy, Jimmy always made an effort to communicate, even if it was something as simple as asking if Clint wanted a beer, or if he wanted to help in the garden.

_ What’s wrong?  _ Clint asked.

_ I lost one of the kids!  _ Jimmy was breathing hard – not from exertion, Clint realized, but from panic.

_ Which one? _ Clint asked, already casting about with half an eye still trained on Jimmy. He had a feeling he knew which one. As much as Jimmy protested he hated the goats, he didn’t, not really, and he absolutely was devoted to the runt of the litter.

_ The littlest one. What if he’s scared? _

_ The one you keep calling a punk? I doubt if he’s really scared, but I’ll help you look, _ Clint said, before brushing back Jimmy’s wet hair from his forehead and then clapping Jimmy on the shoulder. Jimmy didn’t even flinch with the contact like he normally would have, too worried about the goats he pretended to hate.

Clint was glad that Lucky was back in the cabin, safe and sound, as they trudged through the mud and rain. They finally found the little thing huddling under someone’s art project. Jimmy had to crawl under and coax him out, cradling the baby goat in his arms and following along dazedly when Clint lead them both back to his cabin.

Lucky shuffled to his feet when Clint pushed Jimmy down into one of the chairs, got hot water going and went for a towel. Scratch that, dry clothes and  _ several  _ towels.

After a few moments, the goat was dry, pried out of Jimmy’s shaking hands, and laying down beside Lucky who curled around the baby goat like a protective mama.

“Strip, take a hot shower and change into these,” Clint said, shoving a bundle at Jimmy. “I’ll have some hot chocolate ready when you come out.”

Jimmy dragged his eyes up and away from Punk and Lucky to stare helplessly at Clint.

“Go,” Clint said, gently. “I’ll keep an eye on him, promise.”

Nodding shakily, Jimmy stood with a jerk, grabbing the bundle and following Clint’s instructions. While he was gone, Clint quickly changed and dried himself off. He could take a shower later. And thank god these hearing aids were Stark made, cause they were waterproof, and Clint turned them back on after he was sufficiently dry. He could hear the water running in the shower, even over the muted thundering of the rain on the roof, and he relaxed a little.

Ten minutes later, a much steadier – maybe a little shyer – Jimmy stood in Clint’s kitchen with the wet clothes and towels held uncertainly in his hands –

And Clint blinked, as he got a look at Jimmy in his clothes. The oversized hoody and sweatpants made Jimmy look so soft and Clint had to clear his throat a few times. Jimmy always wore long sleeves and gardening gloves even when Clint pointed out that he must be too hot in them.

Even now, Jimmy was hiding his hand in the hoody’s pocket. Clint knew his initial assessment of Jimmy to Nat that Jimmy was more than he seemed was true. He’d seen that haunted look in the mirror far too often. How many scars were carried on Jimmy’s body, not just his mind?

“Here,” Clint said, shoving it all aside and holding out the mug. “Hot shower and dry clothes for the outside, hot chocolate to warm up your insides. Promise, you’ll feel better in no time.”

“What do I do with -?” Jimmy said after a moment, lifting the bundle.

Clint pursed his lips. There was a hamper, but those things were  _ soaked.  _ “Eh, fuck it, drop them in the sink,” he gestured to where his already sat, “or the tub, I don’t care. But no sense in anything else getting wet. I’ll wash your clothes when I wash mine, if you’re okay with that?”

Jimmy shrugged, easing forward, watching Clint warily as he dumped the clothes and towels on top of Clint’s before gingerly sitting in the same seat he’d been in before – dried, of course, Clint having hastily wiped the chair down just before Jimmy came out - finally taking the proffered mug.

They sat in silence a long while, just sipping at their respective mugs, staring at the dog and the goat.

“He’s okay,” Clint said finally. “I think you were more traumatized then he was.”

Sighing, Jimmy hung his head. “You’re right. It was stupid –“

“Didn’t say it was stupid. Those things happen, okay? You were worried about him. That just makes you a caring person,” Clint said. “No shame in that.” He nodded at Lucky. “Should have seen me when Lucky got hurt – I didn’t even  _ know  _ him then. He was just this neighborhood dog I sometimes gave pizza to. I’m pretty sure the vet’s office thought I was deranged.”

“Sometimes, I think…” Jimmy said, then stopped, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“I’m really glad I have Lucky,” Clint said quietly. “Sometimes, on the worst days, it helps knowing that that dog loves me unconditionally, that he depends on me being around. In some ways, I feel like my own well being is tied in to his.”

“Yeah, yeah I think I get that,” Jimmy said, eyes returning to the cuddle pile happening on the floor.

Clint smiled at Jimmy softly, a little sadly, wondering what, exactly, the poor guy had gone through. But that was Jimmy’s story, and Clint wouldn’t pry. He could be there, though. Even without knowing the how’s and why’s, because Clint could  _ feel  _ a kindred spirit in Jimmy.

He understood, instinctually, that Jimmy was a man that had been hard used and needed peace – with himself, and the world around him – to heal, or even try to come back from it all.

He got it. Because he’d been there. Was there. But he was getting better, he thought.

Nat was probably right about this place.

Dammit.

* * *

“Hey, that's my hoody,” Clint complained a few days later, when he came across Jimmy a few mornings later, on the way to breakfast.

Jimmy stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Yeah, I know. You gave it to me.”

“Lent it to you _ , leeeent,” _ Clint said, drawing out the word. He tugged at the sleeve of the hoody. “This is mine.”

Jimmy tucked himself deeper into the oversized hoody. “I'm keeping it,” he said defiantly, brow furrowing, but there was a look in his eye that was… fuck, but Clint didn’t know what to call that look. It was like Jimmy expected it to be torn away from him, was resigned to it even, for all his brave front. And it  _ was  _ a front, the kind that would go far in convincing someone else that there was no moving Jimmy on it.

Except, that Clint was well acquainted with putting up the same damn front. It was old hat to Clint. He often had to bluff his way through situations others could powerhouse through.

Clint sighed, knowing he'd give in before he started. Before Clint saw that look in Jimmy’s eyes. Because honestly, the too big clothes made Jimmy look adorable. A little softer and more approachable, not to mention cute as a button with his mouth set firmly, almost daring Clint to take the hoody back, like he was ready to fight over a bit of soft cloth.

There was no way it could be that important to him and yet it was, apparently, and Clint couldn't take that away from him.

Even if it _ was  _ his favorite hoody; a deep purple fabric that had faded, fraying at the cuffs, washed so often that it was probably the softest thing Clint owned.

“Fiiiine, you can keep it, but you owe me a beer or something,” Clint said with a huff. Jimmy blinked, as if surprised Clint had given in so easily but he went with it quickly enough.

“Done,” Jimmy said softly, one hand reaching to the cuff of his sleeve and rolling it between his fingers. His face broke into a small smile of stunned surprise and gratefulness that had Clint’s stomach turning somersaults.

He wasn’t examining that anytime soon.

Clint  _ liked  _ doing nice things for people. It made him feel good. That was  _ all  _ this was.

Right?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the longest chapter and has some of my favorite bits in it

It was just a couple of nights later, when Clint had been at the retreat for almost two months, that his anonymity blew away before his very eyes.

It was the rare tv night, and Clint was gathered with the rest just for some sort of social interaction, Lucky making the rounds – he’d proven to be supremely popular among the other artists, particularly Lisa – when it happened.

He should have known better. This idyllic setting couldn’t last. That was the luck of a Barton, right there.

He was back at the counter, grabbing a beer, when the program changed, a documentary with the obligatory dramatic music and narrated voice. He paid no attention to it, at first, but the tone of the room had shifted and he turned, finding himself face to face with shaky phone footage of that fateful day in New York.

Clint almost dropped his beer.

“It’s that time of year again, when we think back and reflect on the events that happened 2 years ago today. When Earth discovered, without a single doubt, that there are more things in the universe than we knew, that aliens really  _ do _ exist. This day is one of remembrance and celebration but this year, let us talk about new information that has come to light, information that our own governments secret agency tried to cover.

“We all know the Avengers, those 6 brave fighters who saved New York, but what if they’re not all that they seem? One of these very so-called Avengers is, in fact,  _ responsible _ for the events that led to New York’s devastation  on that fateful day .  One Clinton Francis Barton, codename Hawkeye, can be seen in this footage here – “ the screen shifted, changed, and Clint couldn’t look away –“attacking  _ his own agency _ ! Attacking his superiors and killing fellow agents – men and women he’d worked with  _ for years _ – without a single ounce of hesitance.

“We have reports, in his own words, how it was  _ his  _ plan that Loki used to set events in motion, to open a portal for the very invasion he later fought.

“Why, then, was he not arrested?  _ Why _ was he allowed to roam free with all that blood on his hands? Tune in for a very special report as we take you through never before seen events that led up to the Chitauri Invasion.”

Clint couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tv. He should walk away, walk away  _ right now _ – the program blurred before his eyes, words becoming senseless noise, his blood running cold as the dining area turned social room went quiet, as the program on the tv showed clips of the fight in New York, of broken fragments of his own attack on the helicarrier, up close views of his face with a ‘Where is he now?’ slogan across the bottom of it.

Someone touched his arm and he flinched back violently, dropping the bottle from his hand. Impossibly, it shattered on the floor, beer spraying out, the sound far too loud in a silence broken only by the tv as it continued to lay out his sins.

Not breathing was no longer a problem. Now breathing far too fast, Clint stepped back, turned and fled. He knocked into Jimmy on his way out, avoiding his gaze, and stumbled back to his cabin, Lucky scrabbling to follow him. he stumbled over the grounds in a shaky numbness, Lucky at his heels till he came to his own cabin. Clint fumbled with the door, pushing through it, Lucky squeezing in past him, before slamming the door behind him. Then locking it.

Would they kick him out?

_ Oh god. _

Nat had been wrong. This wasn’t going to just blow over. He’d hurt too many people to ever be forgiven. He couldn’t even forgive himself. If he’d only fought Loki harder – or maybe at all -

Clint slid down the door and curled into himself, shaking. Then Lucky was there, a warmth at his side, a cold nose poking into his neck, a long tongue licking at his face as he whined at Clint. Shuddering, Clint turned and buried his arms and face into the unjudging dogs’ fur.

He nearly jumped when he heard the knock on his door. Instead, he froze, ears straining, senses rising to high alert – had they come to lynch him? Surely they’d be louder about it if they were. Whoever was on the other side was quiet, the knock hesitant.

“Clint?”

It was Jimmy, his voice filtering strangely through the thick door. Clint almost didn’t catch it and something lurched sickeningly in his chest. Oh god. Of all the people he’d befriended here, he’d least of all wanted to alienate Jimmy. He tugged off his aids and fumbled blindly for the little table he’d set by the door, having the presence of mind to tuck them away safely.

Jimmy continued to knock, the vibration running through the door and up Clint’s spine, but eventually, he gave up, leaving Clint to his misery.

God, he wished had some futzing beer.

* * *

Clint woke up from the nightmare with a choking gasp, his legs and body jerking so badly he fell off the bed he didn’t even remember getting into, his vision swamped in blue, blue, blue.

_ Fuck. _

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

He sat up, knee throbbing from the way he’d landed on it, and pushed himself up against the bed – when the fuck had he even gone to bed? - scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair.

Groaning, Clint got up, wandered out of the ‘bedroom’, pushing aside the curtain separating it from the rest of the room, and then walked over to the studio door, opening it. Light filtered in through the window, illuminating the blank canvas that had been mocking him for weeks now.

It seemed to be glowing.

Pure.

Untouched by him. By sin.

By  _ his  _ sins.

In a sudden fit, Clint picked up the closest bottle of paint and threw it at the canvas with an unheard yell. The force of the throw knocked the canvas and easel onto the floor, the bottle rolling about till it was halted by the fallen objects. Clint glared at that stupid fucking canvas, the beat up easel and a floor that had seen countless messes over the years, and would see many more long after Clint was gone.

Helpless anger rose in him, over New York and Loki and SHIELD. Over the hearing loss and his failed relationships. Over this damn god forsaken retreat that was supposed to make him feel better but was only showcasing how often he failed at… at…  _ everything _ !

The rest followed in rapid succession, one of the bottles splitting open and spilling over the floor and fallen canvas combined.

Breathing hard, his throat raw from screaming he couldn’t quite hear, fists clenched together, Clint stared blankly at the floor and the mess he’d made, until the resulting patterns spreading about in a messy swath of vibrant, garish colors, sparked something in his brain.

Clint picked up the easel, but it was clear to see he’d broken it, so he turned about the room, looking for something sturdy to prop the large canvas on, finally settling on the scarred work table along the one wall, swiping aside anything currently unnecessary. He laid it down flat, going back through the assorted paint bottles, cans and tubes he’d tossed about and retrieving what he needed, grabbing on pure instinct.

Then he set to work, using his fingers to spread the paint around, fluid, natural smears, more abstract than form right now, but something… something right there, still out of reach but maybe, for the first time, actually getting closer.

He lost himself in the fervor, only coming back to himself when the scent of food and coffee permeated his awareness.

Looking up, Clint found Jimmy in the studio with him, perched on a stool against the wall and beside the door – a stool that hadn’t been set there before and had to have been rescued from the wreckage Clint had made - a steaming mug in his hand. Lucky sat at his side, leaning into Jimmy’s hand. Punk was curled into Jimmy’s lap, never far from the gardener.

Clint should be alarmed at the intrusion. Alarmed that someone had broken into the cabin, that he hadn’t even  _ noticed  _ it  _ happening _ …

But Clint took in Jimmy’s posture, leaning casually against the wall from his seat, took in the lack of anger on his face, the hints of concern in his eyes –

At the mug Jimmy was extending towards Clint.

Remembered the other night when Jimmy was staring at Clint warily, waiting for something, maybe for Clint to make some sort of connection that he hadn’t actually made.

Secrets. So many secrets.

But he was, once, a spy, and so had been Nat. And even before all that –

Clint was used to secrets.

Slowly, Clint approached him, eyeing him warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He took the mug without looking away from Jimmy, and caught the words on his lips, Jimmy’s hands echoing the words.

_ There’s food, if you’re hungry. _

Clint’s stomach picked that moment to rumble and remind him that he’d left the dining area before getting his dinner last night and from the light now pouring in from the big windows - this place was all about natural lighting when possible – it was now late morning. He’d been at this, whatever this was, for hours.

He lifted the mug and took a sip - black coffee, just a little sweetened and a touch of milk, nothing special, but perfect in that moment – and nodded at Jimmy cautiously.

Jimmy nodded back, slipped off the stool, tucking Punk against his chest with one arm, and went back out through the door of the studio. Clint followed in his wake, Lucky scrambling up to trot at his heels hopefully.

What the fuck was going on? Did Jimmy not know? Had he not stayed to see the program? Why had nobody else come after Clint and confronted him, kicked him out?

They should have. He’d expected  _ that.  _ He hadn’t expected… well…  _ this. _

There were two plates on the table, stacked tall with pancakes and syrup, accompanied by fresh fruit and sliced bacon and dishes in his sink and  _ fuck,  _ how had Clint not  _ realized  _ Jimmy had been in his space and  _ cooking?  _ Also, where had the makings of pancakes come from? Or fruit. He’s pretty sure he didn’t have fruit in his tiny fridge.

Jimmy nodded at the sink, looking pointedly at Clint’s hands and Clint huffed out a laugh when he looked down and saw how completely covered in paint his fingers were. Not to mention the splatters going up his arm and all over his shirt. He shrugged at Jimmy with a rueful smile.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve eaten paint. And if I stop to wash up now, all the food’ll go cold. How could I waste such a nice gesture after all the effort you’ve gone through?”

Clint laughed again at the despairing look Jimmy sent him, feeling a little lighter, and he put the mug down and gave himself a quick wash, getting the fresh paint off at least. He could work on the dried paint later.

The meal was quiet, Lucky and Punk both begging for food and both Jimmy and Clint pretending they didn’t see the other slipping food to the dog or the goat. Jimmy didn’t try to speak to him, so Clint was able to at least pretend that everything was fine, that absolutely nothing had happened, for just a little bit longer.

He was good at that.

It worked till the food was finished, anyway, and till after the dishes were done and Clint had finished getting the paint off his hands.

And arms.

And face.

He’d failed at getting it out of his hair, though, and he’d sighed, but at least he’d changed into clean clothes before he put his hearing aides back on and then wandered back into the studio to see what the damage was.

Clint stood just inside the doorway, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. Groaning, he rubbed his hand over his face and then laughed. “Well, at least there was already so much paint on the floor, the mess I made just blends in.”

Jimmy snorted, following a few steps behind Clint when Clint walked over to the worktable and the canvas laying on it.

He stared at the oceans of blue – almost literally, the picture was fairly abstract, broad swathes of color, general shapes – and the figure trapped in the waves, reaching outward. There was red mixed in, more splotches while the blue was in large sweeping swoops. The figure was black and not really recognizable as a person and honestly, sometimes Clint didn’t feel like he was one, anymore. Did he deserve to be?

The picture was missing something though, he wasn’t sure what, but it had felt  _ good _ , getting it out on the paper. The blue still sent a twinge of fear through him – honestly, that might never go away – but it was a little less visceral than it had been.

“What is it?” Jimmy asked quietly.

Clint stared at it, his fingers tracing over the blob of black. “Drowning.” The word came out rough. He hadn’t even meant to say it at all and yet, it was the truth. He’d felt like he was drowning under Loki’s control. His limbs and mind moving without his say so, uncontrollable, tossed around at the whim of something so much stronger than him, all his efforts to fight back, to regain control, far too feeble. “Loki.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jimmy said and Clint froze. His hand clenched into a fist and dropped to his side. He refused to turn around and look at Jimmy. He didn’t want to see the expression on Jimmy’s face, the pity. He didn’t think he could take that any more than he could if it were anger or disappointment.

“Yeah, well, what do you know about it, Jimmy?” Clint bit out bitterly, trying to keep his breathing even, his voice normal.

“Look at me Clint,  _ please, _ ” Jimmy’s voice was soft and it was begging and before he realized it, Clint was turning, and Jimmy was tugging at the glove on his hand – “Cause my name’s not exactly Jimmy. Didn’t even have one for almost 70 years. Think I might know a thing or two about brainwashing, and the guilt that comes along with it.”

Clint’s breath caught in his throat – first at the words, then when the glove came off Jimmy’s hand and metal gleamed between them.

“James Buchanan Barnes, though Steve calls me Bucky,” Jimmy – James – Bucky? – said.

Clint gaped at him, despite having already suspected Jimmy had been something else once, a weapon. His eyes flicked down to Jimmy’s hand, now held loosely at his side, the fingers twitching nervously. Clint looked back up to find the handsome grumpy goat whisperer he’d been lightly crushing on was biting on his lips, his eyes wary and hopeful and – fuck, Nat had told him about everything that had happened on the trip up, all the details, including how one Sergeant Barnes was also the Winter Soldier.

The Winter Soldier, who’d tried to kill Nat, had tried to kill Steve, was standing there, in Clint’s studio, looking scared and lost and –

Oh…

_ Ooooohhh…. _

“Say something, please?”

“Holy shit,” Clint breathed out. “How the fuck is this my life?”

Barnes flinched – Clint really had no idea what to call him anymore – and the look on his face was resigned. “I’ll get out of your hair,” he said tightly, turning away from Clint.

Presenting his back to Clint, like Clint wasn’t a deadly marksman, like he wasn’t a possible danger to Barnes. And he was, he absolutely was – just as Barnes was equally deadly and dangerous if he wanted to be and he hadn’t.

In all this time, with all the opportunities he had –

He hadn’t.

Here he was, hiding behind long sleeved gloves and gardening gloves, behind soft hoodies and ball caps, growing out a beard, and helping out anyone who needed a hand, and had become the personal jungle gym and surrogate mother to a bunch of baby goats –

And he just wanted to be left alone, the same as Clint, to find a way to cope, forget and move on and hope the world would do the same.

Without thinking, fearing that Barnes would walk straight out of this cabin and right off the grounds, now that he’d spilled his own secret, walking off to never be seen again, Clint reached for his arm, snagged the elbow of Barnes’s sleeve and made a sound he didn’t  _ ever  _ want to admit to.

Barnes stopped, one hand resting on the door.

“You don’t have to leave,” Clint finally managed, his heart in his throat. “I know… Nat told me about DC and… HYDRA. I’m so sorry. I guess… if there’s anybody that _ does _ understand, it would be you. Nat too. You don’t have to – You know you don’t have to hide from us? The Avengers kept  _ me  _ around, even after… even when I didn’t think I deserved it. They gave me a second chance.  _ Steve _ gave me a second chance and he didn’t even  _ know  _ me. They’d give you one too.”

Barnes huffed. “Steve’s a moron. He gives  _ everyone  _ second chances, whether they deserve it or not.”

“Did I?”

Barnes whipped around, his hair flaring out lightly when he did. Clint let go of Barnes’s sleeve at the motion, barely stopped himself from stepping back at the suddenness of it. Barnes’s hands came down to rest on Clint’s shoulders as he looked up into Clint’s eyes earnestly.

“Of course you did. The shit they were saying on that special? It’s not the whole story.”

“It’s the only story the public is gonna hear,” Clint scoffed.

“That’s not true,” Barnes said with a shake of his head. “There was a live interview after, someone who pointed out the mind control they’d skipped over at the start. It’s out there, now. It wasn’t your fault.”

“If it’s not mine, then it’s not yours either,” Clint said.

“Maybe, but you and I both know how hard that is to accept,” Barnes was still looking at him, eyes filled with the same warmth it had held these past few weeks. The same awe and hope. It was no different then before he’d known. So maybe…

Did that mean…? Maybe Jimmy had  _ already  _ known who Clint was the whole time.

“Yeah,” Clint said, swaying forward a little before he caught himself. A slow smirk slid over Barnes’s face and a familiar heat curled through Clint’s body making his breath hitch. Flushing, he blurted, “What the fuck do I call you now? Jimmy? James? Bucky? Barnes? Something else entirely? Something new and completely different? What about Susan? No, you don’t feel like a Susan, maybe a Mary or a Lucy? Luke? John? Mathew? There’s always – “

“Jimmy is fine,” Jimmy said, the name slotting back into place as easily as his lips joined Clint’s, drawing a soft moan from Clint, his hands coming up to fist in Jimmy’s shirt.

He was surprised, and not, by the suddenness of it. It was tentative, at first, Jimmy giving him the space to push him away. But Clint didn’t want that, now knowing Jimmy had been thinking about kissing him too, and instead, he pulled him in closer. Jimmy sighed and the kiss deepened, but still slow and soft and  _ savoring. _

They came up for air a long while after, Jimmy steering Clint back over to his own table and settling him in. Jimmy rattled about the mini kitchen and soon a fresh mug of tea was placed before Clint. Coffee was good for waking up, cocoa was good for warming up, but tea was excellent for soothing – a fact Nat had taught him, actually. Clint clutched it to his chest without taking a sip and stared at Jimmy as Jimmy grabbed the other chair and set it beside Clint.

“Now what?” Clint asked heavily. “I can’t stay here, can I?”

"You’re leaving?" Jimmy asked. His voice was laced with disappointment, resignation.

"I should," Clint said, he dropped one hand from his mug and ran it through his hair. "Fuck, everyone  _ knows _ now - "

"I think you underestimate them," Jimmy said gently. "Or maybe you just think that little of yourself. Clint, these people, you've been among them for weeks now, almost 2 months. You've been there, even when you were struggling with your own project. Obviously struggling with  _ something _ , but whenever someone needed a hand or a shoulder, you were there. You've got a keen eye for more than arrows, Clint. And these folks, they know you better than some stupid tv show host trying to drum up ratings. I bet the people back wherever home is for you, I bet they feel the same way."

"How the fuck do you even know this shit," Clint grumbled, touched by the words but not quite able to believe them. "You get the chance to watch much tv when you were brainwashed?" He already knew the answer, didn’t even mean to say it, but it slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"That's low, Clint," Jimmy said and Clint flinched because Jimmy was right. Fuck, why the fuck did he always lash out when anybody said they cared? Why'd he always drive people away? "Good thing for you, I’m used to punks pushing back when they feel cornered."

That startled a laugh out of Clint. "Steve?"

"The  _ worst _ ," Jimmy agreed, laughing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Clint started laughing harder and had to put the mug down on the table before it spilled. “You named the goat after  _ Steve?” _

“Of course I did,” Jimmy said defensively. “Haven’t you  _ seen  _ the shit he gets into?”

“Which one?”

“Both of them.”

Clint giggled. “Fair enough,” he agreed.

Jimmy scootched closer, till their knees touched. “Don’t leave?” he asked, a strangely vulnerable look on his face.

“Okay, not yet, not without you, anyway,” Clint said softly.

“I can’t go back – “

“When you’re ready,” Clint said. “I won’t push.”

Relief filled Jimmy’s face and Clint leaned forward, softly brushing Jimmy’s hair out of his face.

“Thank you,” Jimmy said.

“Thank  _ you,”  _ Clint answered.


	6. Chapter 6

Jimmy was right.

Nobody cared.

Or, that wasn’t quite right.

Nobody gave him grief about New York, no one brought it up, except to say that they wouldn’t tell anyone he was there, that they’d keep his secret. Clint was so overwhelmed by this that he couldn’t say anything in return. Lisa passed him a beer, Jason patted his arm sympathetically and Jimmy just kept looking at him as if to say “I told you so.”

It was really irksome and made something stubbornly defiant rise in Clint, filling him with the need to go and do something stupid for no good reason at all. He beat it down, as years around Phil and Nat had taught him to do. Sometimes.

No, instead, they’d asked him if he had brought his bow and if he would do a demonstration for them?

Before Clint even realized it, he had put on a performance, and then the entire retreat – artists, cooks, gardeners etc, etc, etc - were all getting together to design an obstacle course for him because it had been impressive, sure, but obviously too easy.

He sat bemusedly at the table in the gathering area eating lunch as they argued around a pile of papers strewn about the table. It looked as if they’d forgotten his presence entirely. Well, most of them, anyway. Lisa shifted away from the gathering of bowed heads to lean across the table.

“So, did you really grow up in a circus?” she asked.

“Yup,” Clint said. Jimmy looked up at Clint from the plate of sandwiches he’d been assembling and blinked at him in surprise. Clint winked at Jimmy but continued talking to Lisa. “Not many people can say they know someone who actually ran away to the circus.”

“Actually, you’re the second person I know that’s done that,” she said.

It was Clint’s turn to blink in surprise. “Huh, that’s not the usual reaction I get,” he admitted.

“Yeah, my roommates’ family wasn’t all that typical,” she said wryly, before promptly turning back to the others and arguing for some elements to be added based on his circus history.

Clint shook his head and stared. “What have I gotten myself into?” he asked the room at large.

The room at large ignored him, but Jimmy slid a plate of sandwiches toward Clint quietly, fending off Punk the entire time as Punk craned his neck out of Jimmy’s arms, stretching his head determinedly across the table in an attempt to reach the sandwiches.

Clint snuck Punk a few pieces of cheese when he was relatively sure Jimmy wasn’t looking.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, and slipped deli meats to Lucky under the table. Lucky’s tale whipped against Clint’s knees in his excitement and Clint winced.

Okay, maybe Jimmy  _ had  _ seen.

* * *

Afterward, Jimmy and Clint spent more time together than ever, Jimmy becoming Clint’s unofficial assistant in figuring out how to make his painting a three dimensional reality, with other residents chiming in when consulted over materials, location, and the best methods of working within the chosen parameters.

It became almost a group project.

Something was still missing though.

In the meantime, the obstacle course became a weekly event, somehow, winding about the grounds and changing with each run. It was good. Good exercise, good practice and… Clint started feeling a little better about himself again, remembered the exhilaration he got from being  _ good  _ at what he did.

Sometimes the goats tried to run the course with him. Thank god  _ Lucky  _ hadn’t tried to. But it was amusing to come off the course and find Jimmy red-faced, trying to corral all the goats.

Sometimes Jimmy kept pace too, though he refrained from shooting anything. If Jimmy had a weapon, it was hidden well. Clint wondered if the other residents knew who  _ Jimmy  _ was. If Clint’s history and mistakes were out on the net, then surely the Winter Soldier’s would be also.

Then again, all these people had been here, with their only link to the outside world that stupid television that got airtime once a week. Maybe they didn’t.

* * *

Little more than halfway through Clint’s stay there, around a month and a half after being ‘outed’ to the others as Hawkeye, and their first kiss, Jimmy moved into Clint’s cabin.

It hadn’t been planned. It just… sort of happened. Clint’s still not sure  _ how. _

Punk, of course, moved in with him.

Clint coughed and pointedly looked away as the goat trailed in after Jimmy, already well used to Clint’s space. He had no room to talk, of course. He’d dragged Lucky along with him too and how could he say no to Punk? It would have made Lucky (and Jimmy) sad, and god, but Cint was a sucker for a pair of puppy dog eyes. Having two pairs trained on him would make him combust, he was sure.

Besides, Lucky and Punk loved to curl up together. It’d be a shame to break that up.

Needless to say, Jimmy and Clint also liked to cuddle with each other, though the bed was narrow and small. Definitely not enough room for someone as bulky as Jimmy or as tall as Clint.

Or for the dog and goat that tried to join them.

God, Clint loved sleeping next to Jimmy. Or, well, practically on top of him, due to lack of space, but Jimmy didn’t seem to mind. He just curled a hand around Clint’s hip and pulled him in closer.

Clint was definitely sleeping better.

Not that he didn’t still have nightmares. ‘Cause he sure as fuck did, and so did Jimmy. The nightmares weren’t just going to stop simply because Jimmy was sharing his bed, but somehow, they were a little easier to deal with.

For one, Clint didn’t need to worry about hurting Jimmy in his sleep, at least. And after the first few times Jimmy had a nightmare, Clint was able to reassure him that getting hurt by Jimmy was very much not going to happen.

Jimmy froze instead of lashing out, barely breathing, and Clint would pull him closer, run a soothing hand through Jimmy’s hair and murmur words into his ear until Jimmy relaxed and breathed normally again.

Five months in, Clint finally confessed to Nat that his crush had grown into something considerably more than a crush.

Nat, being Nat, only texted back  _ I told you so _ .

He still didn’t tell her  _ who,  _ though.

* * *

The last month of the retreat brought Clint closer and closer to panic.

He had to finalize his installation, have a formal presentation for it, pack his things and Lucky, meet up with Nat and go home. And somehow, he had to convince Jimmy to go with him without pressuring him.

And Clint  _ still _ hadn’t told Nat who Jimmy was.

He was going to pay big time for that when the truth finally came out.

Bleating warned him of Jimmy’s approach. Even if Clint’s hearing was perfect, he was sure he’d never hear Jimmy coming if Jimmy didn’t want him to. Stopping beside him, Jimmy stared out over the same space Clint was staring at.

“You think this is gonna work?” Clint asked.

“It’ll be great,” Jimmy assured him. “Trust me, I know a little bit about art, just from osmosis. And I’m not talking just here.”

“Right, Steve,” Clint nodded. “You said he was an artist?”

“Yeah, that’s what he did before he got stupid enough to be experimented on and join the fucking army,” Jimmy said.

A little goat head butted against Clint’s thigh, then bounded toward the depression in the ground. The plan was to install these giant metal pieces Clint was still forming into specific shapes and line the hole, filling it with water, turning it into a small pond with formations rising out of it.

There’d be other bits too, but he was still missing something…

Jimmy leaned into him, taking his hand almost shyly. “You’ll figure it out.”

“If you say so,” Clint said with a sigh, squeezing Jimmy’s hand with a small thrill. God, he hoped to fuck he could get Jimmy and Punk to come home with him.

Wait, were Brooklyn apartments zoneable for goats?

Eh, if not, he’d sic Tony on it.


	7. Chapter 7

Having a handy dandy boyfriend with a literal metal arm was definitely a plus when metal working. When the pieces were ready to be joined to the lining, and Clint discovered something had warped the wrong way, Jimmy was able to pinch it back into shape, or clamp it in place while Clint meticulously realigned the edges so it would fit  _ right. _

Once the four major pieces were welded into place at the bottom of the pool, Clint debated painting them. He was still on the fence about that, to be perfectly honest.

Jimmy sat on the edge of the pond, legs dangling inside as his hands gripped the edge. “Depending how long this thing is out here, and what you use to protect the coating, you know that any paint you used would weather away eventually.”

Clint felt like a lightbulb had gone off in his brain and he stared at Jimmy with a gaping mouth.

“What?” Jimmy asked, eyes going wide under Clint’s stare. “What’d I say?”

“You’re a genius!” Clint crowed, scrambling around the inside of the pool to settle between Jimmy’s knees, beaming up at Jimmy before reaching up to pull Jimmy down far enough to kiss him thoroughly.

When at last they parted, Jimmy stared dazedly at Clint, tracing Clint’s lower lip with his metal thumb. Clint grinned against it and Jimmy shook his head, snapping back in and meeting Clint’s eyes.

“Well, I’m sure but I don’t know what brought that on?”

“You’ll see,” Clint said, resolving to keep  _ this  _ bit a surprise.

He did wind up painting it after all, in those same damnable blues. The floor he painted in splotches of different reds, checking how the color would look underwater, how it would distort. It took him days to get everything the way he wanted, then sealed and dried sufficiently enough that he could finally fill the pool and line the edges with rocks.

Even the rocks were part of it – large and jagged stones on one end, getting smoother and smaller as they curved around towards the other end.

The last bit he would put in the night before the reveal. He’d already talked about the change for his plaque.

Of course, finding time to finish the new piece he needed to add to the installation without Jimmy around was difficult, but at least Clint could count on those times Jimmy actually had to go out and do his job, though the disappointed look on his face when Jimmy realized Clint wouldn’t be accompanying him almost ripped Clint’s heart out.

But if he’d thought  _ that  _ was bad, it was nothing compared to how hard it was to sneak out of his cabin in the middle of the night when Jimmy was both an ex-spy  _ and  _ a light sleeper. That wasn’t helped by the fact that Clint was reluctant to leave Jimmy’s warm embrace.

Somehow, he managed. Maybe because Clint was also a spy, once upon a time.

He slipped back into his –  _ their _ – bed a couple of hours later, snuggling into Jimmy’s warmth. Jimmy, the traitor, just chuckled, the sound reverberating through Clint’s body. If he said anything, Clint missed it, but that was good. The best way to avoid questions Clint couldn’t answer without ruining the surprise was not being able to hear the question in the first place.

This was gonna be great.

He hoped.

Though with the way Jimmy was moving, getting Clint more comfortable as he resettled into the bed, Clint had the feeling that he hadn’t so much as snuck out, as he’d been indulged.

That was okay.

It showed how much Jimmy  _ trusted  _ him.

Clint’s heart swelled with that thought.

It was only a few hours later that Jimmy was nudging Clint awake and walking him through their morning routine. If he was curious about what Clint had been up to in the middle of the night, he let Clint keep his secrets. That was okay, it wouldn’t be a secret for long.

After breakfast and a shared shower, Clint and Jimmy walked down to the edges of the retreat, to the dividing line between the private area and where tourists were allowed to wander. Due to the nature of Clint’s installation, there’d been no way to make it and  _ then  _ move it after, so they’d cordoned the selected area off instead.

A crowd had already gathered, though it was still early enough that there weren’t many tourists (yet), and Clint recognized most of the faces idling around waiting for him .

He pulled at his collar, even though the pale blue wasn’t even buttoned up to his neck. Nat had packed it, he thought, and he’d at least hung it up when he’d gotten there.

Well, a few days after he’d gotten there. That was good enough, right?

He was still wearing jeans, but they were nice ones – no holes, no paint spatters (and that was saying something). He’d tried to tame his hair and Jimmy had just chuckled at him and taken over. The other artists and residents of the retreat were quieting down and turning to look and Clint cleared his throat nervously.

What the hell?

He’d been a goddamned circus performer. He knew how to work an audience, how to look confident and sell a part. He’d used that skill adeptly as a spy and even honed it. Clint knew his stuff.

So why, then, was his stomach turning flip flops?

“It’s because this is personal,” Jimmy muttered, just loud enough for Clint to hear. He cupped Clint’s jaw with his hand and the comforting weight and warmth of it made Clint lean into Jimmy, his eyes closing on a soft sigh. “You channeled your _ self  _ into this project Clint. That makes you vulnerable. You bared yourself to them, and to any who come after and sees this, even if they don’t know who they’re seein’.”

Jimmy wasn’t wrong, but it was… it was more than that too. Jimmy didn’t know yet what Clint had done, what he’d added.

That Clint had exposed more than himself in the process.

He swallowed, nodded and opened his eyes.

“Seeing this through with me?” he croaked.

“Of course,” Jimmy said. He pulled back, his hand sliding down Clint’s neck, shoulder and arm, till his fingers tangled with Clint’s. He’d become absolutely tactile once him and Clint had bared their secrets to the other. Not tactile in the physical sense (sex), where Clint usually jumped first and regretted later when it all blew up in his  _ face _ , but in a way wholly new to Clint.

Aside from the kissing, and the sleeping, they cuddled together, ran their fingers through hair or massaged shoulders. They sat or worked while pressed together in some way. It was all these little touches and things Clint couldn’t even begin to describe that somehow felt more intimate than sex ever had. But the more of it he got, the more he craved and it seemed Jimmy felt the same.

_ Touch starved _ , Nat provided via text when Clint had fumbled around to explain it.

_ No I’m not,  _ Clint had replied _. I’m not lacking for touching. And theres most definitely plenty of touching going on when the clothes come off. _

_ It’s not the same, especially if it’s coming from someone you care about. _

Well, huh. Clint hadn’t thought of that.

He let Jimmy lead him over to the covered sculpture. He was supposed to make a speech, but even though he’d rehearsed it in his head a million times, he was suddenly blinking blankly into the audience, filled with faces he had grown to know, every word forgotten.

Jimmy stepped back, though he didn’t go far and Clint cleared his throat.

“Uh, when I came here, y’all know I was struggling. Still am, truth be told. Probably always will. But I’m uh, struggling a little less now, and it’s  _ because  _ I came here. It’s because of all of you, and Jimmy, helping me find my own feet again and  _ do _ something rather than just  _ waiting _ for something, like I had been. Y’all helped me find myself again, brought the joy of something I’d once loved back into my life. I still got a long road ahead of me but, I’m finally on the path, and that ain’t a small thing, so I hear.”

Clint angled himself towards the sculpture and the sheet that covered it. “Now, I’m not all that great an artist –“ He caught Jimmy giving him a look, and knew without Jimmy having to say a single word that he disagreed – “and a lot of people helped in the making of this and just, thank you, all of you.”

He took a breath, grasped the sheet and said, “When the concept first came to me, I called this ‘Drowning’, but now it’s something else.”

Whipping the sheet off with a dramatic flair – cause Clint had always had a knack for that, ever since his circus days – he revealed the sculpture and let everyone take it in, wondering who would first see the changes within.

Jimmy edged closer to Clint on an indrawn breath, the first to notice the additions.

Because there were two abstracted figures now, not one, with one arm wrapped around each other’s waists. Their other hands twined around a rope, fingers tangled together, as they pulled themselves out of the water, away from the towering waves behind them, the snaky tendrils below them, reaching out of the depths.

“Now I call it ‘Hope’,” Clint said softly. Jimmy’s hand grasped his and held on tightly, his eyes glued to the sculpture. Clint squeezed gently and Jimmy’s gaze broke, turning to Clint with wet eyes and an astonished but beaming smile.

Clint smiled back. “For both of us.”

Jimmy’s expression went soft and he tipped forward, touching their heads together, his fingers squeezing tight, like he was holding on for dear life.

“I’m ready,” Jimmy said, his voice hoarse. “I know you’ve wanted to ask. Musta seen you stop yourself at least a hundred times, but you always gave me the space, never pushed and I’m grateful for that. But if you really want me to, I’m ready to leave with you when you go.”

Clint’s eyes went wide and his vision blurred but he was grinning so big it actually hurt. “Yeah?”

Jimmy chuckled, rubbing a thumb over Clint’s cheek. “Yeah.”

****

* * *

**Bonus Scene :**

Natasha wasn’t alone when she picked them up a week and a half later, as Clint found out to his dismay when he’d been in the middle of squinting at the Buick. It was a tank, but could it fit three adults, a retriever and a goat?

The passenger door opened.

Scratch that. Apparently  _ four _ adults, a retriever and a goat.

“Steve?” Clint asked dumbly.  _ Crap. Crap, crap, crap _ . Jimmy wasn’t there yet, busy rounding up Punk and Lucky while Clint broke the news to Nat that the Winter Soldier would be coming home with them. But now that plan was blown and he was breaking it to Nat  _ and  _ Steve, and who  _ knew _ how either of them would take it?

More importantly, Clint and Jimmy had intended to secure Nat’s silence and go straight back to Bed-stuy, give Jimmy some time to settle in before springing Steve on him.

And before springing Jimmy on Tony. Cause that was going to go poorly for first impressions.  _ “Hello, my name is Bucky Barnes, I killed your father, but I didn’t want to.” _

Even with the brainwashing and the torture and all of that, it would take Tony time to get over that. Clint got it. The situation was unfair all around.

“Hey, Clint,” Steve greeted. He looked… tired, actually.

“Didn’t know you were gonna be here,” Clint hedged, flicking a glance at Natasha. She was… smirking? Dammit, she  _ knew,  _ didn’t she?  _ How? _

Stupid question.

“Neither did I, but Nat called me, told me I needed a break and, well, it’s been a while since I’d seen either of you. Thought it’d be nice to bring you guys home, catch up a bit,” Steve said in that earnest way that Clint still couldn’t quite believe sometimes.

Clint looked between them a little nervously. “Well, it’s not just me and Lucky. I, uh, met someone.”

Steve nodded. “Nat told me. Good for you. You deserve to have somebody,” Steve said. Clint was sure the only thing that saved him from a shoulder clap was the fact that he’d managed to keep distance between the three of them and Steve seemed content to lean on the car. For now. Clint was morosely thinking how he wouldn’t be taking bets for how long  _ that’d  _ last the second Jimmy’s face came into sight.

Chuckling nervously, knowing Jimmy would be appearing any second now, Clint looked behind him, then back at Steve and Nat. “Yeah, but well, see, you both already know him. And he’s also got a goat. Think the car will fit a goat  _ and  _ a dog?”

Nat shrugged. “It’s roomier than it looks,” she said, completely unconcerned. The lack of curiosity on her face cemented Clint’s belief that she already knew. She must have snuck onto the property at some point to check up on him and if anyone could do that and get away without him noticing, it would be her.

She knew, but she wasn’t reaching for a knife or any of her other weapons hidden on her person. Had she prepared Steve at all? Judging by the calm exterior, Clint had to go with ‘no’ for that one.

“Someone we know?” Steve asked, confusion clear on his face. “Someone  _ I  _ know, when most of the folks I know are from SHIELD or the Avengers? Who?”

Clint bit his lip. Should he just tell cap or let Jimmy surprise him his own way?

The question was taken from him apparently the bleating of a goat and Lucky’s barking heralded Jimmy’s approach. Steve’s eyes flickered over, then back to Clint before blinking and doing a double take, his head whipping back around and his jaw dropping.

“ _ Bucky?” _

Far from panicking, Jimmy joined Clint, an arm coming around to rest on Clint’s ribs. His voice was calm and steady.

“Hey, Steve.”

Clint snuck his own arm back around Bucky’s waist and gave him a squeeze, looking down at him fondly.

Guess they were both ready to face people again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! the end! oh my god!  
> I hope you enjoyed that - i loved writing it!
> 
> thank you for reading! Heuradys - I hope this is something close to what you were hoping for? Thank you for choosing me and giving me this wonderful idea to work with!
> 
> [Rebloggable Tumblr Post here](https://pherryt.tumblr.com/post/619588410368229376/no-longer-drowning-post-avengers-post-fraction)


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